


The Past Haunts

by a_stingrae



Category: Historical RPF, The Shadow of the Tower
Genre: Angst, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2015-10-10
Packaged: 2018-04-25 19:10:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4972927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_stingrae/pseuds/a_stingrae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>February of 1503, Henry Tudor deals with the death of his beloved wife, Elizabeth of York. His grief brings about ghosts of the past, though it isn't who he hopes for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Past Haunts

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally intended for a ghost story contest, but I was convinced to post it here by an amazing pal. Despite the disheartening theme, I hope you enjoy! :D

As chill seeped into the dimly lit room through each minute crevice and the gaps in the worn glass window, the fire in the hearth dwindled, as did Henry Tudor’s aspiration for life. _Perhaps, in all my misery, I’ll join her this very night._

Yet that declaration felt awry, near impossible; there was still much to do for the kingdom, but the thought left a pang in his chest. His life was long lived and seemed as if it’d reach out onto forever, leaving far behind anyone he’s ever held dearly… and even those he did anything but--all of those that betrayed him for naught but their own gain and those that did nothing but plot. Even those that were raised pawns haunted him at his weakest.

His ponderous mood extinguished the last of the smoldering fire. Just as the dark quiet began to settle, the fire lit anew, and her face flickered before him. As she aged with him, Elizabeth never seemed to lose her grace and York charm. Even in death her soft gaze soothed the breaking man.

Henry found himself reaching forward to stroke her fiery hair, to keep her bound to him forever. “I’ll miss you sorely.” He found himself justifying with the apparition. “All these years… all we’ve grown and witnessed together…” The fragmented phrases came out in white puffs.

His pity weighed down all around in him in guise of the February chill. While he shivered violently, the flames died out again; her face had vanished. The weary king crumpled under the realization; he was utterly beside himself until it occurred to him it was preferable that way; he did not share his wife’s charms and seldom found himself capable. Yes, he could shut tragedy and duty out from his chambers forever. He could live as if Elizabeth were still at with him and their sons, Henry and Arthur, still boys, forever vivacious, forever at their parents’ side.

He was near giddy with the thought of leaving his responsibilities behind, renouncing the claim he’d fought so long for. And his Arthur, their beloved Arthur could be with them again. Oh, yes! The warm presence of their departed children will seal the cracks in the walls, prevent any more desolation from creeping in. Henry turned to his side and grinned at the fair haired boy beside him.

“Oh, Elizabeth… he’s more beautiful than I could recall.”

He reached out to take him in his arms just as the boy, all bright-faced and doe-eyed, spoke with a voice that sent him reeling, “Casting duty aside won’t extinguish it.”

Henry gaped, frozen. The words bounced off the stone walls and reverberated to his core, striking out any of the mirth previously bubbling inside. He dared not take his eyes from the young prince, as though turning away would unleash the truth. _It appears this imposter is impersonating once again._

“I will have you face me one way or another,” he mimicked his son in that same taunting voice. Then, the image twisted and reformed; Henry’s son aged before him, all his beauty melting away and morphing into his long time source of inquietude.

“Ah, don’t blame me, Your Grace. It’s your own bloody conscience.” All at once Perkin Warbeck had swept away the delusions Henry spent hours crafting, and reminded him of his grim and overbearing reality. He felt the illusions shatter on the icy floor beneath his feet. He snapped from his daze, anger soon filling the space.

“How is this my fault?” He snapped scornfully, shoving aside his unease, “I recall you being your own damnation as well as the young Earl’s.” As he looked upon the youth, he began to take in notable features of his face, his easy and crooked smile, his pallid complexion, and the dark mark circling his neck.

“Is it? I recall us being pawns, part of greater ambitions -- far more so than our own.” He was pacing the room before Henry at this point, and Henry watched him warily. “Ah, and wasn’t it you that set us beside one another?” He met the king's gaze then continued, “As well as that, you left my cell door open, inviting any wickedness in. Tempt a man when he’s down.” Perkin began to turn away. With a start, Henry became conscious of all the potentially deadly things about his chamber.

Perkin whirled back from his pacing with a chuckle. “Have you not ever been able to relax, Your Grace?” He smiled wanly, “After all, the throne is why I died… is it not?” A feeling had begun to creep uneasily onto Henry as he watched the specter; he was vaguely aware of an invasiveness that seemed to emit, almost visibly, from Warbeck’s being. A panick far colder than the English nighttime air seized him.

“Why is it you that hath visited me after all this time? Why not my wife? What of Arthur?” The yen for them was stronger; he’d feel more at ease with this threat-- _Even in death, damn him!_ \-- if they were at his side. Perhaps he’d finally accept defeat and fade away.

Perkin was at the window now, and all of his previous pomp seemed to have drained. “I am no more enlightened than you, Henry. You’ve been calling me for awhile now.” At first, Henry baffled, letting the informal addressing slipped right by him. Calling out to the imposter? No, he wanted his wife, his son…

Then, Perkin turned his face towards him, a haunting look now in his once vibrant eyes; Henry saw himself reflected. “My nightmares…” Henry spoke to his gaunt face, stark against the heavily shadowed room.

Abandoning all caution, the king burrowed his face into his unsteady hands. “Oh...” He groaned. “How can I carry on this way? For what reason, if my love is being stripped from me?”

Perkin’s brow furrowed in a cast of pity. “You cannot blame Him for your selfish sorrow,” he spoke steadily as he moved forward and crouched before the despairing man. Henry found himself unable to retort. Selfish… Was that how he wanted her to see him? He glanced warily at the fireplace, but it was just as hollow.

He turned back to find her smiling at him, the same soft smile…

“I believe your heartache is blinding you, Your Grace.”

Henry blinked and there was Warbeck's ghastly face. The king shook off the hope that bloomed in his chest.  “But… where has she gone?” The frigid air seemed to suck the life from his words. Becoming conscious of Warbeck’s proximity, the king dared a glance into his eyes, and seized there.

_So blue…_ He backed away. _Could it be…?_ He studied his faded blonde hair. A smile stretched out the boy’s pallid lips.

Sneering, Henry thought, _No, it is foolish to even consider._

Perkin, eyes downcast, said at last, “She is not present. Not now.”

Henry jumped forward, willing the boy to meet his hard gaze, “Have you seen her?”

“Oh, Your Grace, your thoughts are written all across your face,” the smile ever widened, “It is done. I am no longer a threat, and she will bring you joy no more. We have passed. Leave it be.”

Henry could vaguely recall considering how this boy’s looks could fool anyone looking to be fooled, and now, he wondered if he were such a victim. But it couldn’t be so; he was a pretender, a pretender who was manipulating this king at his most vulnerable.

“You say to leave it be, yet you remain in my chambers,” Henry Tudor set his jaw. Whatever Warbeck’s intentions were, he would put an end to it just as before.

Perkin chuckled and stood, “It is as I said. Perhaps not intending to, you summoned me, and I shall not go until…” He trailed, and made a gesture to finish the thought.

So it was up to the king. He stood, garnering the air of authority he was known for, “Then go. Leave me to mourn in peace. As you say, all I have left is the living.”

The boy was lounging on the windowsill now; his ease was unsettling to Henry. “You are wanting to know of something, are you not? The sooner you inquire, the sooner I leave you be. Possibly for good.”

Henry was drawn back to the invasive thoughts from before, the doubt this specter conjured. “But I know who you are… Then why do I…?” He met the vibrant blue eyes, her eyes. “Hope,” he finished in a whisper.

“We all know who I am, Henry.” There was sympathetic tinge to his usual mocking smirk.

Full awareness bore down on the king. _Gone…_ The word had a different meaning. What was it originally? He recalled Elizabeth’s smile, full of warmth. His heart ached for their children. Attending court alone was no longer a nightmare, but a nasty reality.

But what was more important: what Elizabeth would want--what is expected--or the past and all the phantoms it holds? He looked back up at the manifestation before him, opposite of the door. And he knew it then.

“You will not find any joy in here.” And it was gone with a flutter of frigid air that settled onto the king’s skin and sunk deep into the marrow of his bones. As it bore into his heart, it left his head throbbing noisily in the emptiness.

A series of urgent knocks upon the door brought Henry away with a jolt. He shuffled, his feet numb and like lead; he was faintly aware of beseeching from the other side, a beckoning from his councilmen, to his dread. The door sat ominously, cut into and framed by the foreboding walls. With its opening, he knew, would come the very doubts which Henry Tudor spent all of his life suppressing.


End file.
